runaway girl
by janeisnotonfire
Summary: he doesn't know what to feel, and her head spins as the stars shine- the story of a boy who loves a girl with a tendency to run away / lucylysander, for zhie.


**a/n 1.** i don't even know. originally published for the ngf collab. this is for zhie [jace-herondale] because i love her. yeah. warning for bad language and excessive run-on sentences.

* * *

_lucylysander / runaway girl_

* * *

when i woke up alone, i had everything  
a handful of moments i wish i could change  
and a tongue like a nightmare that cut like a blade  
in a city of fools, i was careful and cool  
but they tore me apart like a hurricane  
**- therapy ; all time low**

**i.**

"If he loved me a little less, I might have stayed." The words are spoken with nonchalance and Lysander finds himself both surprised and unsurprised by the odd statement. Granted, it's not exactly the kind of thing one says into the silence of a cloudy night with no pre-emption whatsoever, and the tone used is hardly befitting of the relative seriousness of the topic, but it's Lucy, and she's always been a little bit backwards about her feelings.

He takes a moment to process her words as if it'd make a difference to his lack of understanding about them, and finds himself as well off as before he'd tried to think about them. "What do you mean, Luce?" he asks, and somehow his voice sounds wrong, as if he should have not spoken and just observed a conversation between Lucy and the empty night, but he always was a little bit rash.

She doesn't face him, just stays looking out ahead – at what, he isn't sure, though he doubts that whatever she's looking at is what she's seeing, and he doesn't know how that's possible but Lucy Weasley sort of defines the indefinable and that's an impossibility in itself, is it not? The cigarette in her fingers moves slightly, and he notices she's trembling, yet her voice gives away no evidence of her body doing so when she speaks. "He loved me too much, Lysander – I couldn't stay. If someone loves you like he loved me, you can't help but fall a little in love with them in return, and that isn't me, Lysander. I don't fall in love." She speaks calmly, without the tumultuous defiance that Rose has when she speaks or the angry bitterness that is always present in Dominique. Her voice is cool, indifferent even. He wonders if it should worry him that after being her best friend for fifteen years, this is the most she has ever disclosed to him about her feelings on the matter of love apart from the occasional swear word directed at an arrogant ex-boyfriend. He decides to ignore that for now.

"What do you do, then? What do you do if you don't fall in love?" he inquires, his own voice displaying a nonchalance he does not feel, depicting him as the indifferent man he cannot be. His blue eyes betray his inner feelings, the curiosity mingled with the insatiable desire to do something – to do what, he has no idea – and the fierce longing he feels for something he himself does not yet understand, but he feels confident that the turmoil will be unobserved, as she is still staring out at something only she can see.

She finally faces him this time, her lips curved into a half smile that should frighten him, but doesn't. Her eyes do, though. Their green has always seemed mysterious, but now they are impenetrable, with unfathomable depths. "I run," she says simply, and her eyes search his face, before she turns back to the thing he cannot see. "I run," she repeats quietly. "Far, far away."

**ii.**

Her words haunt him far more than he thinks they should. They are in his mind, her thoughts about love, and they replay in his head and ring in his mind until he feels the need to scream. He does not understand why he is reacting like this, and it terrifies him in ways he doesn't think he will ever begin to be able to comprehend. It occurs to him that her keeping her thoughts on love a secret for all those years was a kindness to him, and he wonders if he should be locked up for preferring a time when his best friend had never spoken those five sentences. He's afraid, too. He's a Gryffindor, born to die on his feet, and five sentences have him mentally cowering on his knees. It makes him want to cry, the way these five sentences have affected him far more than any words ever spoken to him in his life beforehand, and he doesn't understand why. They are not special sentences on their own; they do not resemble harbingers of death, or wraiths to sap courage – they are nothing of an essence, nothing to be afraid of on their own, but they are combined in a way he can't imagine they were ever combined before, and they mean something that breaks an essential part of him in a way he feels he will never truly discover and that is what scares the little Gryffindor prince more than anything.

His descent into despair is silent and desperate and makes no sense to anyone, least of all him. On the outside, he smiles and laughs and wears only his boxer shorts while he reads about dragons – because, they assume, he is Lysander Scamander, Gryffindor's prince, and he cannot be bothered to wear trousers, even with company such as Roxanne Weasley, famed artist, or Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.

Lucy sees, though. She Apparates to his house one day and finds him staring at the ceiling in what anyone else would take for boredom, but she understands is loss. "You know what I've noticed? You don't smile anymore," she states after a while, her voice ringing in the hollowness of the room. He does not move from where he's lying on the couch, but they both feel the waves of tension rolling off of him.

"Yes, I do," he says simply, in a tone that would be argumentative if it didn't seem so defeated. It makes her sad, she realises, to observe the boy that always wanted to _do_ something reduced to only wanting for everything to leave him alone.

"Not really," she reminds him plaintively. "Not with your eyes. You smile, not because you're happy. It's like you smile because you think you need to, which is even more fucked up than Dominique's latest old-man-crush. You laugh even though you don't seem to find anything funny anymore. You hold books about dragons and your eyes watch the page, but you don't really see any of the words, let alone understand the meanings. You can't even be bothered to change into clothes anymore, because you're so weary of the world and you just want it all to stop," she presses, eyes blazing with tension and thoughts she's been needing to get off her chest for a while, and it's the most either of them have said for days.

He looks up at her this time, his blue eyes meeting her green. Everyone always said her eyes were the ones that made a person blink, but she isn't sure. His eyes are as endless as the universe, it seems, and only slightly more familiar, which takes her by surprise. His eyes had always been an energetic blue, filled with easily read emotions that showed how he wore his heart on his sleeve. Now they're guarded, and filled with conflict and weariness and an underlying pain that makes her want to hug him, something she's not done since he was fifteen and needed consoling after his grandfather Xeno had died. "What changed?" she asks with a weary sigh, even though she's sure that she knows the answer.

Silence. And then-

"I don't even know," he says quietly, his brow knitting in confusion. "I can't stop thinking about what you said that night, Lucy, that night on the roof of the Leaky. It's driving me mad, Luce, it's slowly driving me mad. I can't sleep, I can't eat, and I can't even write anymore goddamned poetry!" The volume of his voice rises as he speaks on, and he ends on an almost shout.

She observes him for a moment, the tall boy with blue eyes and a spirit broken by something he doesn't understand and she hasn't tried to. She moves towards him and sits at his side, leaning against the couch in such a way that her head falls onto his stomach if she tilts it backwards. "Forget it," she tells him brusquely, twisting her head slightly to face his. "Forget about what I said. Be happy again, Ly, because you're not yourself, anyone can see that. Lorcan's out of his mind with worry, and the rest of them know something's up, but they don't know what it is. Most people don't notice, yeah, but most people don't know you. Lorcan, however, does. I do. Lily and Rose and the rest of my family do. The Longbottoms do, and so do the Smiths. Fucking hell, even _Scorpius_ has noticed something's up, and it's a bloody miracle if he notices anything other than what that fuck Rose is doing to his plants. We know you, Lysander, and don't forget it. Forget what I said, because it's not important. It doesn't even fucking _matter_, okay? Nothing I have ever said changes the fact that you're my best friend, even if you're not acting like him right now. I miss my best friend, Lysander, so you better do something about it."

He opens his mouth, and then closes it, evidently unsure of what to say. They watch each other for a long moment, and he finally breaks the silence. "What if I can't?"

"Then I guess I'll never see the real Lysander Scamander again," she says with a shrug. "Sad. I liked that kid. If you ever find him, tell him to Floo me, yeah?" And with that, she vacates her position on the floor and walks out the door. She doesn't know where she's going, but she doesn't care. All she knows is that until her best friend is himself again, it is not back there.

**iii.**

The music is loud. She can't help but notice that, even in her less than sober state. The music is loud, the people are loud, everything around her is loud but she thinks the world is silent. She stumbles out of Lily's house and falls onto the grass that surrounds the porch. The world spins as she rolls onto her back, and looks up at the sky. There are no clouds tonight – instead, each star twinkles brightly in what she feels like is a superbly orchestrated effort to show each other up. Why stars would wish to show each other up, she has no idea, except that they're stars and why shouldn't they be allowed to? Who could ever stop them from being the best they could be if they wanted it enough?

As she ponders this somewhat strange train of thought, a shadow looms beside her and she looks up to see Lysander frowning down at her. She giggles. "Why so serious?" she hisses, in a terrible impersonation of the Joker from the Muggle film she'd watched once with Lily and the twins, The Dark Knight. Lucy Weasley may be many things, but a respectable drunk is not one of them. He rolls his eyes at her, but he smiles a bit anyway, and she claps in delight. "Come sit next to me," she commands, patting the grass next to her.

He rolls his eyes again, but sits anyway. "The grass is wet," he complains, but he doesn't really mind. He just wants something to say that doesn't involve the weather. She frowns at him.

"Stop being such a pansy," she commands. "The grass is wet because it is alive," she continues, in a satisfied sort of tone. Why she would be satisfied with that sort of logic, he has no idea, but drunken Lucy always made less sense than normal Lucy, if that was possible.

"You're drunk," he says in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. She nods. It's rather obvious, he reflects, but it's hardly as if Lucy is in any shape to start mocking him lightly about pointing out the obvious.

"You're here," she says, in an equally matter-of-fact tone of voice, though he supposes her comment is more justified, as she is far more likely to be drunk than he is to be sitting next to Lucy Weasley on the cold, wet grass outside her cousin's house on his dead grandfather's birthday after three months of not speaking to her.

"I suppose I am," he replies. He doesn't know why he's there, except that today reminds him of his grandfather and he misses him like he hasn't missed him in a _long_ time, since when he died and Lucy hugged him when they were fifteen, and he just really fucking needs Lucy right now, okay?

She cocks her head to the side and studies him, and he has the uncomfortable feeling that she's seeing everything about him and passing judgement on him. He knows it's ridiculous – for one, Lucy Weasley is not a Legilimens and he's certain that even if she was, she'd be utterly incapable of performing Legilimency on him whilst drunk, and secondly, she's known him since they were six and he'd come home from Africa after living there all his life, and there's nothing left of him to judge after fifteen years of being best friends and seventeen years of knowing one another – but he still feels like she is. "You're lonely," she observes and he wants to protest but he knows he can't, because even when she's drunk, Lucy does not take kindly to being lied to.

"Little bit," he agrees with a rueful smile. He misses everything, he's startled to realise. He misses the way she challenges everything about him, and the way she acts when she's drunk. He misses the way she sees everything for what it is, and her piercing wit and humour. He misses her Slytherin tendencies, even the ones that make him want to rip out his hair in frustration, and he misses the strange things she does and says. He misses everything else in the world, but most of all, he misses her, and the way she makes him feel.

"That's okay," she tells him with a tired kind of sigh. "I'm lonely too. We can be lonely together," she says, in her stubborn way, despite the sudden sleepiness he can hear in her tone. She leans against him, and rests her head on his shoulder. He lays his head on hers, and she fits perfectly in the crook of his neck, and he can't help but feel like it means something, though he cannot articulate what.

"I'd like that," he says in reply to her statement, hours after she's fallen asleep and the noise from the house has died. She can't hear him, he knows, but the stars will bear witness to his testimony.

**iv.**

"Dom's annoyed at you," Lorcan says to his brother one day as he leafs through his copy of the Quibbler. Lysander looks up at his brother in surprise, discarding the tattered yellow notebook he was hunched over into his laundry basket.

"What on earth for?" he asks, bemusement plain as day on his handsome features. He hasn't done anything to annoy Dominique, to the best of his knowledge – in fact, the last time he spoke to her was a month ago, he believes.

Lorcan shrugs. "Something about you not having asked out Rose yet," he adds, seeing his brother's even more confused expression. "The girl's mental, if you ask me."

Lysander shudders slightly. "Don't get me wrong, I love Rose to death and all, but she's not exactly the easiest to get along with _and_ she's abusive in her affection, so I shudder to think about what state I'd be in after a month in a relationship like that."

Lorcan laughs. "She's not _that_ violent," he says, before catching Lysander's look. Thinking about it some more, Lorcan shakes his head slightly and amends, "Okay. Maybe she's a _little_ violent."

"Understatement of the century," Lysander mutters, before glancing at his brother in more confusion. "Hang on, how did you know that Dom's mad at me? More to the point, how did you know _why_?"

Lorcan shrugs. "I spend half my time at Lily's house nowadays. Last time I was there, Dominique stormed in, ready to rant to Lily about something, saw me, and spent the next three hours abusing _my_ poor ears instead," he complains, glaring at his brother. "She dedicated a whole hour on insulting your idiocy for not dating Rose – though _why_ she would choose you for that, I have no idea – as well as Scorpius' idiocy for fancying Rose, and Rose for not dating you!"

Lysander groans. "But why does she want Scorpius to get over Rose in the first place?" he asks, completely bewildered. He will never admit it, he thinks privately, but Rose and Scorpius would be very cute – in an abusive, wild animal kind of way. As soon as the thought passes his mind, he wishes to scourgify his brain and check that his bollocks are still in place, but he fortunately keeps in mind that his brother may be a tad concerned to see his brother pointing a wand to his head, let alone peering down his pants during a brotherly conversation.

Lorcan stares at his brother like he's suddenly grown a fourth head. "God, you really are that thick, aren't you?" he says in disbelief, sounding so much like Lily that it hurts Lysander's head. He likes Lily, truly, but _Merlin_, he likes his brother far more, and he rather wishes that Lorcan could retain a semblance of his own self. Oblivious to Lysander's thoughts, Lorcan continues, "It's because she fancies herself in love with him, of course! Come on Ly, sharpen up! I know you've got a brain, somewhere in there – use it, yeah?"

This is far too much for Lysander. Head spinning, he tries to formulate some sort of witty reply to that. The best he can come up with is "What?" Spotting Lorcan's supercilious expression, Lysander hastily tacks on, "I thought Dom was gay! Or, y'know, obsessed with older men!" before inwardly face-palming. He honestly can't believe that he just said that, and, judging from Lorcan's expression, his brother is shocked as well.

"Unless you feel like telling Scorpius he's a bird or middle-aged, I wouldn't mention that," Lorcan finally says drily. Lysander flushes slightly around the collar, but makes no sound. "I think she's bi, actually," Lorcan muses aloud, his expression thoughtful. Glancing at his brother, he adds, "Not that it makes a difference, really – until she finds someone, she's going to be hooked on Scorpius forever, and let's face it, that is a less than ideal outcome."

Lysander simply groans. "These Weasley-Potters are going to be the death of us, you know that, right?" he checks with his brother, who simply nods his assent. Lysander leans backwards and tilts his chair onto the table, so the table supports him. "I swear they weren't this mad when we were younger – when did they all get so fucking crazy?" he moans to the ceiling.

Lorcan raises an eyebrow. "Probably when they lost their respective virginities," he supplied, before cocking his head to the side. "Explains why Rose is so fucking mental, anyway."

Lysander feels that he is doing the right thing when he throws a pillow at Lorcan in response.

**v.**

"MOVE OUT OF MY FUCKING WAY, YOU STUPID, BLOODY MOTHERFU-"

James stares in amusement as his younger cousin shouts obscenities at their cousin Fred. Fred, who seems unscathed apart from a shake in his shoulders – whether it is due to silent laughter or genuine fear of Lucy, James cannot tell – makes his way over to where James is leaning against the bench top, sipping a glass of butterbeer.

"What the bloody hell is up with Lucy?" Fred demands, reaching behind his languid companion to grab a glass of butterbeer off of the bench top, before taking a sip. He swills it for a second, before giving James a questioning look, as if to prompt him into answering.

"She's annoyed," Hugo puts in helpfully, coming down the stairs into the kitchen. Fred and James turn to give him a stare that seems to drip sarcasm.

"Yes, well, I'd gathered that much," Fred points out irritably, wondering not for the first time if his young cousin was mentally stunted, and if that meant they should stop pranking the curly haired boy. Dismissing the idea of ever ceasing to prank Hugo, he presses, "_Why_ is she annoyed?"

Albus, accompanied by his partner in crime, Rose, walks in just in time to hear Fred's question. As Rose picks up a glass of butterbeer and drains half of it, Albus supplies, "Maybe she's PMS-ing? Merlin knows _that_ one," he indicates Rose with a casual jerk of his thumb, momentarily bringing attention to the fact that she is now pouring vodka into her half-full glass of butterbeer, "claims to be PMS-ing enough."

Rose, who by this point is mixing her concoction with a obscenely bright pink lollipop, gives Albus the finger and glares at all the boys present. "Fuck up, Albus, before I heat this up and pour it down your trousers. _Then_ we'll see if Molly's damned anti-climate-change underpants or whatever the fuck she got you for Christmas actually work," she informs him, with a sweet smile that somehow makes her look more menacing.

Albus throws up his hands in defeat, asking the heavens, "Why are we friends again?"

James rolls his eyes at his brother's antics, before reaching over him to mess with Rose's hair – a dangerous move, especially considering the petite redhead is already annoyed, but he does it anyway. "Because you love her, and she's the only one who'll put up with you long enough to call you a friend," he answers fairly.

Albus scowls and flips off his brother while Rose just shakes her head and takes a swig of her own mixed cocktail. "Fuck off, Jimmy-dearest," Albus says, before leaving the kitchen, Rose trailing with her drink in one hand, and a cigarette that she's somehow acquired in the other.

Fred shakes his head and looks at Hugo and James. "They're both fucking mental, mate," he says, leaning his arm on James' shoulder as the hazel-eyed boy nods in agreement.

Something evidently occurs to James at that moment, because he frowns slightly and turns to face Fred. "Oi, when Luce was shouting at you, how the actual fuck did you get her to shut up?" he demands, puzzlement obvious on his handsome features.

Fred grins, reminding both James and Hugo of an old fox. "Why, Jimmy, old chap," Fred begins with a self-satisfied grin, "I silenced her, of course. Seems to have done the trick," he finishes with a self-satisfied smirk present upon his elfin features.

"-CKER, I WILL GET YOU FOR THIS FRED FUCKING PERCIVAL WEASLEY, DO YOU HEAR ME? I WILL GET YOU!"

James chuckles at Fred's suddenly frightened expression. "Yeah. Really did the trick," he laughs, before dodging an irritated punch aimed at his gut. "Oi, fuck off!" James says, grinning madly. "You need to run, after all!" And with that, Fred Weasley heads off upstairs, a furious little Lucy Weasley hot on his heels.

**vi.**

"Uh, hi, this is Lysander, and I'm – hey, is this thing on? Lorcan, are you _sure_ this is the right way to do it? Last time we did something the way you wanted, we ended up with turnips on our arses. You're definitely sure? And it's on? Well, why didn't you _say_ so? Urgh. Anyway, my starry-eyed fans – ow! _Fuck_, Lucy, that hurt – I'm Lysander, and I live with Lorcan. He's my brother, and less awesome than me. Lorcan says to talk after the beep, no idea what the hell that's meant to b-"

"Oi, Lysander, get your arse down here, stat! _Everyone's_ waiting for you, you absolute tosser! Honestly, mate, if you're going to RSVP to one of _Maman's_ soirees, then you're kind of expected to turn up! Jesus Christ, Ly, you'll be the death of me, I swear."

"Lysander fucking Scamander. If you do not get the fuck down here, Aunt Fleur will _literally_ sacrifice Hugo to Merlin in an attempt to appease him for not having a fucking fantastic soiree – measures she thinks are necessary _only_ because _you_ haven't shown up! – and Lucy will probably eat Fred's liver. HIS FUCKING LIVER, LYSANDER. I don't know about you, but I prefer it when the Minister of Magic has assistants that ACTUALLY HAVE ALL THEIR ORGANS IN PLACE. So do the world a fucking favour, and get your arse down here before Al and I actually physically come and fucking drag you."

"Lysander, where are you? Louis is muttering about you being a tosser and Rose has informed me that she will make me move and get you if you don't hurry up. I have _perfect_ view of one of Dom's cousins' cleavage from where I am, and James is eyeing my seat, which I don't want to give up, so please hurry the fuck up and get your arse here before Rose decides to get me up, or worse, tries something stupid like _Accio_-ing you here!"

"Oi, Scamander, get down here. Luce is ready to castrate a house elf, and you need to calm her down. She won't listen to us, mate. By the way, that Finnigan chick you dated at Hogwarts… you're over her, yeah? Sweet."

**vii.**

He finds her by Dobby's grave, like he thought he would. He Apparates to a part of the beach that is at least a hundred metres away from Shell Cottage, and he walks along the sand, feeling it run through his toes. He sees her sitting there, but his pace does not change. When he arrives, he simply sits next to her and she rests her head on his shoulder as they watch the sea. "I suppose Fred's liver is still intact?" he asks, more from want of something to say than genuine curiosity, despite the fact that a small part of him is semi-concerned about a possible descent of hers into cannibalistic values.

He feels her laughter rumble through her small frame and pulse through his larger one. "I suppose you've been talking to my relatives," she says with a chuckle. He shrugs.

"Not really," he says. "I just heard Rose's message say something about a liver when I was Apparating from the house. I didn't really listen to any of the messages – I knew they wouldn't be from you, anyway," he informs her, tucking back a lock of thick hair behind her ear.

She looks up at him, green eyes searching his face. "How did you know?" she asks, her tone slightly curious. Her white fingers deftly grasp a handful of sand as they curl into a fist-grip, and then they release the sand and she watches as the sand is blown away by the wind, before she repeats the action again and again.

He shrugs. "You don't need to call me," he says quietly. "You never have, really. I've always found you, even without you calling me." Besides, he knows she doesn't have a phone, but he feels like saying that will somehow ruin what he just said.

She slowly nods, and fixes her eyes on Dobby's grave. 'HERE LIES DOBBY' the caption read, 'A FREE ELF'. "I wish I was free," she says softly.

Lysander looks down at her, and watches her look at the grave. "What do you mean, Luce? Aren't you free?" he asks, his questions equally meant to probe to make her do something as they are to satiate his curiosity.

She moves away from him then; she's not angry, he knows, but he can see that she's tense. She stands, and walks closer to the grave, before sitting next to it and turning to face him. "I am not _free_," she says bitterly. "I am a puppet. I am the _pretty little thing_ training to be a Curse Breaker that all the trainers think is cute. I am the lonely girl that gets drunk at parties and sits on the sidewalk. I am the runaway girl that escapes any situation where I might actually care about someone more than myself. I am anything the world makes me, except simply Lucy. I am not free," she tells him. "I want to be free," she whispers.

He thinks that in that moment alone, he could stand before Lucy Weasley and tell her that she is, without a doubt, the best thing the world could make her, but he's Lysander Scamander, Gryffindor's prince, and he doesn't know how to put his thoughts into words without writing them down, so he doesn't. The only thing he can think of is that night outside Lily's house, and so he says the only thing he can, "I'll be lonely with you."

Something changes in that moment – he can feel it, she can feel it and he has a feeling the world can feel it too. She gives him a beautiful smile that dazzles him and frightens him in equal measure, and he lies down onto the sandy beach and she comes to join him, resting her head on his chest, and he can't help but feel like she could be the best thing to ever happen to this world, but this world is the worst thing that could ever happen to her.

**viii.**

It soon occurs to him that she's the most beautiful thing he's ever known. Lucy Weasley is a runaway girl, a lonely girl, a girl who wants to be free, a girl who wants to be simply Lucy, a girl with mood-swings and a foul temper to match an even fouler mouth, a girl with days when she's smiling, and days when she's angry and vengeful and just wants to burn the world down, and days when she just cannot comprehend that she could mean anything to anyone. She is a girl afraid to love, a girl that doesn't know her own worth. She is Lucy Weasley, and she is exquisite in her brokenness.

She is a broken girl, a feisty girl, a girl who was born to fly with wings formed of pure spirit, and he can't help but think he sees her as she truly is.

**ix.**

The whispers start. They twist and turn and swirl around them, and every beast Lysander has ever tried to capture have been tangible, but trying to fight rumours with force is as easy as attempting to slay smoke with a sword.

At first, it is only Lorcan, and he teases Lysander in the privacy of their own home where nobody can overhear. He makes snide comments but Lysander refuses to listen, refuses to let some words of jest ruin his relationship with Lucy because, _God_, he doesn't know what they are anymore, and he sure as hell can't define it but he knows it defines him and that's enough to make him to vow to hold onto it until the end of his days.

And he feels like he's groping around the world in the dark and it's all silent, _oh, God, it's so silent_ and he can't help but want to scream because he doesn't understand anything that he's felt since that night on the roof and _GOD WHY DOES SHE AFFECT HIM SO MUCH_?

He doesn't understand why her words make him feel so much, why he finds himself wandering to her apartment in the dead of the night, why he wakes up in cold sweats, imagining that she's actually done something to make her a lonely girl, that she's severed all ties with him and that she's gone from him, gone from them all, run away from everything and oh god, he's never been so scared as he is in those nightmares, because this Gryffindor prince isn't as brave as he was at the start, as he was before Lucy Weasley told him that she had an unfortunate tendency to run away.

**x.**

He doesn't see her for a week, until he's looking for Albus and nearly trods on her sleeping form. His foot still nudges her, and she moans sleepily. "Wotcher, Ly," she says, fatigue clear in her voice as she rubs at her eyes.

He stares for a second, before snapping to attention. "Lucy, why are you sleeping on Albus' floor?" he asks her. "You have a _house_."

"Actually, I don't. The lease ran out two weeks ago," she informs him, before stiffening slightly, as if just realising what she's said. Lysander does the arithmetic in his head – he was always quite good at Lily's Arithmancy homework – and realises that she's been homeless for a whole week before her Aunt's soiree.

He stares at her with annoyance. "So you begged for a spot on Al's floor?" he asks, incredulous. There are a million thoughts running through his mind right now, the loudest being _I COULD HAVE GIVEN YOU A FUCKING BED, LUCY._

She shrugs. "Nah," she says, flipping her hair slightly. "I've basically just hung around other peoples' places and just whacked it out on their couch because it's 'too late' to go home, and I'm 'too drunk'." She snorts as if the idea of Lucy Weasley being _too drunk_ is laughable. Which, he supposes, to her, it is.

"You should've stayed with me, you muppet," he points out, his tone softening.

She blinks up at him. "What, and crash the bachelor-shag-pad?" she jokes wryly, smirking up at him. Where she got the idea that he had a _bachelor-shag-pad_ from, he had no idea, but any protests he could have made died in his throat at the sight of Albus, who had just descended the staircase and entered the room.

"Albus… why is your shirt covered in lipstick?" Lucy asks, obviously amused.

Al slowly swivels around, and turns starkly pale at the sight of the two. "Oh, _shit_," he mumbles, glaring at the floor. Lysander exchanges a surprised glance with Lucy. Albus Potter is many things, but he is especially arrogant. He never _mumbles_; he is proud of who he is and has absolutely no qualms about cutting people down. He never does anything halfway, and he always speaks with confidence. He also never feels bashful about his conquests, which is why Lysander is surprised as to his reaction to be caught covered in lipstick.

A second passes. Then-

"What the _fuck_?"

Lysander, Lucy and Albus all turn to face the stairs. A second later, a girl stumbles down the stairwell.

Not just any girl.

Cassie Lewis, Gryffindor's prize seeker against Al's position as Slytherin prize seeker, and each other's most bitter adversary throughout school.

Also, James' ex-girlfriend and one of Rose's best friends.

Lysander's jaw drops. Audibly. Albus closes his eyes as if preparing for the beating of his life. And Lucy? Lucy _laughs_.

"Well, this is a turn out for the books," she says, grinning like the Cheshire cat.

Cassie ignores the younger girl, and storms up to Albus. "What the fuck happened last night? I swear, if you don't start talking-" she cut herself off, looking pointedly down at his crotch. His eyes widen at the threat, and he stammers, "Oh- okay."

Lucy and Lysander exchange yet another surprised glance. A stammering Albus? This is incredibly uncharacteristic.

Cassie glances at the pair, and smiles. "Hey, Lucy. Hey, 'Sander. Excuse us for a second," she says sweetly, before dragging Albus into the kitchen.

Screams are heard a second later.

Lysander blushes at the words that they're using – though they do seem to mainly be erupting from the Gryffindor – and he raises his wand to cast an Impenetrable Charm, but Lucy beats him to it. "_Muffliato_," she whispers, and suddenly they can't hear anything. He quirks up an eyebrow in question, and she shrugs. "Something Rose taught me in fourth year," she answers.

Lysander nods. "Ah," he says. The mention of Rose reminds him of his conversation with Lorcan. "Did you know that Dom wants me to ask out Rose?" he blurts out, and regrets it a second later.

Lucy's eyes flash, and she whips her hair over her shoulder – a tell-tale sign that she's livid. "Oh?" she asks in a controlled voice. "And what are your feelings on the matter?"

He shrugs. "Well, uh, Rose is great, and all… but no. Never going to happen. Ever," he says, hoping beyond hope that she doesn't imagine him with Rose as well – he doesn't think he could handle that. He's not sure why, really, but it'd hurt too much if Lucy thought he ought to be with Rose.

He watches Lucy's stance relax slightly, and a small smile plays at her lips. "Good," she states. "We wouldn't want Scorpius to try kill you, would we?" she tacks on, smirking. His heart plummets into his stomach and he feels like he's suffocating. He can't believe he actually let himself hope for a second that she didn't want him with Rose for a reason to do with _them_, not Rose and Scorpius. He blinks, and his mouth feels dry. His eyes are stinging and he realises, horrified, that he's going to _cry_.

"Uh, well, Al's clearly busy and I only came around to borrow the cloak, so…" he trails off, rubbing his eye a little. "I think I got something in my eye. A – a Wrackspurt, most likely," he explains in a mutter, not even looking at her. "Albus is quite obviously busy, so I'm just going to… go," he tells her, still not looking at her. He breathes in deeply, and turns to her. She's looking at him, her head cocked to the side and her eyes betraying her hurt and confusion. He commits this image of her to memory, right down to the mismatched, threadbare socks and the lopsided _Rolling Stones _tee. He promises himself that this is Lucy, and she doesn't care about _them_ and what they might have been, and that's what he thinks as he Apparates away.

**xi.**

Days pass.

Weeks, even.

Lily comes to visit him one day. "You're a – a – a cabbage!" she wails, glaring at him. He raises an eyebrow. Clearly, despite her cousins, she hasn't mastered the art of insulting people she cares about yet. She scowls. "No! You don't get to judge me! You're the cabbage that's blanking your best friend!" she yells. A raging Lily Luna Potter would once have scared him, he thinks, but no longer. He's detached from everything, and especially from this screaming petite redhead that doesn't know what the _fuck_ she's talking about.

"Lily," he interrupts, and she stops suddenly, derailed. "Please go away," he continues, pinching the bridge of his nose.

For once in her life, she does.

**xii.**

Roxanne's next, accompanied by Molly.

"Wanker," Roxanne informs him as she tumbles out of the fireplace with a grace he's always envied. Molly walks out primly behind her, her hands flying up to her mouth at her cousin's words.

"Roxanne Alicia Weasley! Don't be so crude!" she admonishes, pretending not to see her cousin flipping her off.

Lysander watches, bemused. He'd just been in the shower and had only just managed to sling a towel around his waist before running to the fireplace when he'd heard his Floo-bell go off. He's not sure why they're here – well, he knows why they're here, just not why they're here _together_. Roxanne's a tomboy, who regularly bewitches men with her knowledge of cars, pranks and broomsticks, and spends more time with an easel than sleeping. Molly's a blonde, with big blue eyes and she wears her heart on her sleeve. She's sweet and sugary and believes that one day, she'll marry her Prince Charming and he'll sweep her off her feet. The only cousin that she could be more different to would be Rose.

Roxanne zeroes in on his expression. "Oi, Sandman, what the hell do you think you're doing?" she demands. It would be sound far more fierce if she hadn't slipped back into using her nickname for him.

Lysander shrugs. "Well, I was showering," he offers, not exactly caring about what they could do to him.

Molly purses her lips. "Someone's gotten an attitude," she mumbles to her cousin. Lysander watches the exchange openly, and finds himself agreeing. Somehow, he's acting more like Lucy now than he ever did when they spent all their time together.

"Look, why are you here?" he asks, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Roxanne stares. Molly opens her mouth, no doubt to put in some insipid comment about friendship being for life and family sticking up for their own, but Roxanne stops her. "Molly, be quiet," she orders authoritatively, before looking at Lysander. "Come on, Sandman, you know why we're here. You're not yourself, and you know it. Lucy isn't, either. You guys are best friends. I don't know what's up with you two, but whatever it is, it's not worth your friendship. Nothing is. Right?" she says softly. She waits, before turning to Molly with a sigh. "Come on, princess. Let's go to Fortescue's; I could use an ice-cream, and apparently Louis' newest crush works there. We can go check her out," she tells her cousin, before pulling her away through the Floo.

Lysander lies down, and thinks about her words. _It's not worth your friendship. Nothing is_. He shakes his head, suddenly angry and completely and utterly _not_ detached. There are things worth their friendship, he thinks. One of them being the fact that he loves her more than anything in the whole fucking world and she doesn't even care-

Wait. He _loves_ her.

"I love you."

He tastes the words on his tongue. They feel… right.

"I love you, Lucy May Weasley. I love you more than anything. I fucking love you… and you don't even care."

He deflates suddenly. This is _worse_, he realises. It was better when he didn't know what to call it because now he knows what to call his feelings and now he knows how hopeless it is. It's completely hopeless because he knows she doesn't care for him like that because of what she said that day at Al's house and because of what she said on the rooftop of the Leaky Cauldron, because if there's one thing Lucy's ever been adamant about in his memory, it's that she doesn't _do_ love.

That is the moment he gives up on Lucy Weasley.

**xiii.**

He's walking down the street one day, when he sees Rose Weasley. It's been three months since he talked to Lucy, and ever since he stopped talking to her relatives, too. The only people he ever seems to talk to nowadays are his Mum, Dad and Marlene Longbottom, who has been crushing on Louis Weasley forever, and understands how he feels without even having to put it into words.

Rose is laughing, and her head is thrown back, her red hair streaming down her back. It's been so long since he saw her laugh, and for the first time ever, he understands that Rose Weasley isn't just gorgeous, she's beautiful, too.

She turns from her companion, and sees him. He can see her green eyes widen from here, and he's struck with a sorrow because, dammit, she really looks like Lucy at times.

She whispers to her companion – who seems strangely familiar to Lysander – and leaves him to walk towards Lysander. "Hey, 'Sander," she says softly, which is a first because Rose Weasley doesn't _do_ soft.

"Hey, Rose. Long time, no see," he tries to joke. He watches her twirl her hair around her finger, and then she sighs.

"Look, 'Sander. Shit went down with you and Lucy, yeah. Don't bother," she adds, when he opens his mouth to fob her off. "She got drunk and told me all she knew, which wasn't much. Seems to me like you're both a bit scared of shit. Can't talk, really. Took me about five years to think of Scorp romantically, and another ten to agree to a date," she says wryly. His eyes widen when he realises what this means.

"You're with Scorpius, now?" he asks, his face splitting into a smile. He's surprised to find himself honest-to-God _happy_ for her – he hasn't felt happy in so long, and now it's because the scariest bird he's ever met has finally agreed to a date with her best friend. He supposes his all-encompassing sorrow wasn't so all-encompassing, after all.

She grins at him, and nods. "Yeah. Took me a while, him being my best friend and all," she says, and if Lysander isn't mistaken, her voice is hinting at something.

He sighs. "Lucy and I aren't you and Scorpius, Rose," he says firmly, feeling slightly wistful.

"Of course not," the redhead snorts. "As if there could ever be anyone _quite_ like Scorp and myself," she continues with a smirk. Her green eyes turn serious, and she looks him in the eyes. "She misses you, though. She's changed – something about a visual poetic fuck you," she informs him, looking wry.

He blanches. He'd once written a poem about a girl he used to date; she'd cheated on him, and he'd been angry, but not as hurt as the next year, when she'd shown up to school with dyed black hair and tattoos and slept around – and so he'd written a poem about her and shown Lucy. "There's something about the way a girl you used to know moves, the way everything about her changes so she's a visual fuck you," he quotes, and looks at Rose.

"Well, she's definitely changed visually," Rose mutters. "She walks around in fitted jackets and dresses like she's fucking _Molly_ and everything about her is immaculate, including her make-up and her _hair_," she trails off, before glancing up at him. "She dyed her hair," she tells him morosely. "It's the same colour as my Mum's now."

Lysander gapes because, fucking hell, a brown-haired, immaculate Lucy that dresses like her sister is not Lucy; she's just some girl in the middle of the crowd that doesn't actually mean anything to anyone. Not like Lucy Weasley does. "Wh-" he begins, but Rose cuts him off.

"Lysander Scamander. You are _not_ going to ask me why or anything asinine like that. You know fucking why," she orders imperiously, and Lysander feels completely and utterly _schooled_.

"Um. Okay," he finishes lamely. He smiles. "It was nice seeing you again, Rose," he says placidly, before moving back, "but I really must be off. Journals to burn, and notes to send, you know."

And with that, he Apparates off, and leaves Rose alone on a sidewalk.

**xiv.**

_Lucy,_

_I know that you don't do love. I know that you're scared._

_But think about it, Lucy. You've been "doing" love your whole life. You love your family, and your friends, and your pets and even people you've never met! You love more than anyone else I've ever met, especially considering you don't "do" love._

_I guess I'm trying to make you see that you love every day, and you don't run away._

_I think I'm hoping that realisation will stop you from running away again._

_Because, Luce, I love you._

_I fucking __adore__ you. Not just as a best friend, or anything – but actual, goddamn __love__._

_And, y'know, I'm no expert in love. Years of poetry scrawled into fading journals doesn't make me an expert on the subject. But it makes sense – I've always loved you as a mate, and it just kind of… progressed._

_I won't blame you if you don't feel the same – I know I'm asking a lot here._

_Just… I just need to know. If you feel the same way. If you could ever feel the same way._

_Because, Merlin, Luce, you have no idea how much it hurts me at times, and I __know__ it's worth it, no matter what, but I don't want to take it out on people anymore._

_I want to be Lysander again._

_Just… tell me in some way I'll understand._

_Please._

_Lysander_

**xv.**

He sends it off with a tawny owl that's bigger than his arm and he watches as Sarsaparilla flies off into the night sky.

Somewhere out there, a green eyed girl is lying to herself and pretending to be someone else.

**xvi.**

She looks at the window; Sarsaparilla is tapping at her window. She freezes, and then she's suddenly tearing the latch off the window and bringing the bird in.

She takes comfort in the familiar scrawl that says her name, and she breathes it in, and, _fuck_, it's an unbearably Lysander smell and she thinks she could die happy right now-

And then she reads the letter.

And rereads it.

And again once more.

She drops the letter onto her desk and paces furiously, thinking hard. She overrides the pressing urge to run, and get away from those words because for someone who never claimed to be good at poetry, Lysander had a way with words that sure pulled on her heartstrings.

She pauses, and a split-second decision is reached. She summons a satchel from beneath her bed that is deceptively light and peers inside. Groping amongst the clothes and – was that the _tent_? – books, she pulls out a quill.

Biting her lip, she writes a series of numbers onto the piece of parchment that she keeps by her desk, and she smiles. She is sure she's chosen correctly.

She tucks Lysander's letter into her bra, and then-

She's gone.

**xvii.**

It takes a few days, but then it's confirmed.

Lucy Weasley has indeed run away.

Lysander drinks his alcohol in a corner of a bar, thinking bitter thoughts as he swills his drink. He _had_ asked her for a sign he'd understand – somehow, knowing she loved him, or thought she could, wasn't much of a relief when she was Merlin-knows-where.

He loves the girl, and she runs away.

How absolutely _fucked up_ can his love life become before he-

His thought is cut off midway because a slender white hand strokes his chest. He looks up, alarmed – is he being molested? – and only sees a familiar swish of red hair before the slender form disappears. He's about to call out her name, when it strikes him that she stroked his pocket.

Shaking his head, he delves in and peers at the parchment Rose slipped in. His breath hitches. It's in Lucy's slanting scrawl, and he thinks he may pass out with anticipation.

He opens it, and reads the contents of the parchment.

And rereads it.

And again once more.

His mouth curves into a smile, and he feels like whooping for joy because Lucy's run away, but she's letting him find her-

He looks back at the parchment, and commits the numbers to memory.

_Co-ordinates._

And before anyone can blink, Lysander Scamander has gone. And none of them know it, but he's off on an adventure.

An adventure to chase the runaway girl.

* * *

**a/n 2.** so, if you stuck with me this long, hurrah. please review because i'm not exactly impressed with this but it took me a fairly long time [ask pearl, i totally infringed upon the deadline] and i am quite invested in it, so opinions and helpful critique is much appreciated! xx

please do not favourite without reviewing. or i will set louis weasley's mafia on you, not even joking.


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